The Scenes Left Out
by Sandylee007
Summary: Scenes we never got to see in the series, from each of the episodes. What we may have missed out on. Friendship, bickering, bonding, danger, hurt, comfort and adventure. REQUESTS MORE THAN ACCEPTED. NO OPEN SLASH, THOUGH.
1. You look ill (The Hounds of Baskerville)

A/N: This idea's been sitting in the back of my head for a long time. Now it's finally bursting out. (smirks sheepishly)

WARNINGS: spoilers throughout the series, language, possible violence and blood in future chapters, general weirdness… (grins) Ya know, the usual stuff from me.

DISCLAIMER: Hats off for those fantastic people who gave us this series! Sadly, I'm not one of them. (sighs miserably – and begins to sob…)

Awkay… I suppose that it's high time to get started, eh? (gulps) I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride, folks.

* * *

**_The Scenes Left Out_**

* * *

'You look ill' – 'The Hounds of Baskerville'

* * *

TAKES PLACE: Right after 'The Hounds of Baskerville', once our boys have made it home.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes frowned upon taking a glance towards the clock, his mind straying momentarily from the experiment at hand. Half an hour past the time Dr. John Watson usually appeared to the kitchen, groaning over the lack anything eatable and preparing tea. Talking and thinking too much, too loudly.

The frown deepened.

Sherlock wasn't worried, obviously.

He just didn't like the fact that there was something… off from the usual rhythm of normalcy.

Routines were boring.

John… made an exception, he deduced.

Sherlock's right foot twitched with the desire to move, his head whirred with a million options. For a moment there was a gleam in his eyes. Just a moment.

_Dismiss._

_Delete._

_Stay focused on the task at hand._

As often happened Sherlock lost track of time. The experiment drew him in, offered his frying brain a moment of excitement. By the time he finally emerged from the hue it was late afternoon. It took a moment before the genius managed to pinpoint what, exactly, had invaded his Mind Palace enough to distract him.

A stair creaked. The step was heavy, unsteady. Was John limping again? No, just swaying.

Odd.

Sherlock peered from underneath his eyelashes as John eventually stumbled into the room. The doctor's usual "'Morning" was a lot more gruff than usual. Fully drawn from the experiment the genius observed, his eyebrows furrowing with concentration.

_Thinks that it's morning while it's four thirty in the afternoon. Wasn't out last night, though._

_Cheeks flushed, otherwise pale. Fever, then, likely a high one at that._

_Stumbling._

_Eyes tired and foggy although has been sleeping for almost a day, still exhausted._

_Stifling a cough._

_Trembling although dressed far more warmly than should've been necessary._

_Doesn't go for food, instead starts with tea._

_Conclusion: a case of flue._

Turning towards him and swaying slightly upon doing so John frowned and unleashed a somewhat suffering groan. "You're 'oing it a again, aren't you?" That voice was the final proof. It was quiet and croaky, and it was obvious how much talking hurt.

Sherlock pursed his lips a little, leaning forward. He caught easily how unsteady his friend's hands were while handling the dishes. "You're sick", he stated out loud.

John stared at him somewhat dully for a second. "Hmph." The doctor brushed his temple gingerly. A headache was settling in, then. "Must've caught it from that 'loo'y 'ab."

Ah, of course.

Sherlock, much against himself, felt a pang of… guilt, could it possibly be? (It, at very least, felt quite similar to what he went through directly after snarling at John that he didn't have _friends_.) No, of course not. Sherlock Holmes _didn't do_ guilt. Responsibility, perhaps?

He was maybe – possibly – partially responsible for John having been locked into that laboratory for so long. And maybe it was just a little bit his fault that the doctor was ill. The realization didn't feel… good, at all.

He'd assessed the problem, then. Excellent. Now what was the solution?

The answer came when John ended up dropping the tea mug, tired and feverish eyes watching with dismay how the precious, longed warm liquid spilled all over the floor.

"Go back to bed, John." Seeing his friend's look of confusion Sherlock bit back a growl of irritation. Now, he guessed, wasn't a very good time to get irritated over the doctor's lack of sufficient brain activity. "You'd only end up making more mess. That would have me annoyed and you frustrated. Which would additionally lead to bickering, which would do you no good. So go… to… bed."

John blinked twice. Stared at him for a second, two, three. "The tea…"

Sherlock felt his eyebrow twitch. There was a tight knot in the pit of his stomach, which intensified as he observed how his blogger seemed to grow more and more worn by each second. He didn't like it. "I'm perfectly capable of making tea. And I'll clean up your mess, too. I wish that you won't make a habit out of it, though. So go to bed. You're starting to annoy me."

John stared for a one more second. Then, very slowly, melted to a small, tired smile. For once it felt like the doctor saw _and _deciphered more than he did. It was unnerving. "Thank you." Muttering something rather incomprehensible ('git', 'poison me again') the doctor took his leave.

Sherlock's eyes hardened and filled with determination while he watched how his friend stumbled away. He brought one hand under his chin, thinking hard. And finally gave a barely traceable nod.

Soon enough John would be well once more. They'd be back to solving cases together. Everything would go back to the way that it was supposed to be.

He'd make sure of that.

It wasn't out of worry, of course. It was just that John being ill was… inconvenient. There was no one who'd go and buy milk.

* * *

John must've been even more exhausted than he'd thought. For almost as soon as he was back in the security of his bed sleep claimed him once more. By the time he woke up he felt just a little bit better than he did before. It was getting dark outside.

Shifting with a yawn and rubbing his eyes John turned, aiming for his alarm clock to see what time it was. He blinked twice upon spotting something else entirely on his nightstand. A mug of steaming hot tea. There was a small note left beside the mug, the ink hadn't dried yet. Sherlock had been in the room only moments earlier.

'_Drink it. It's not poisoned. Trust me. S.H._'

John stared at the drink with a degree of well justified suspicion. He hesitated for a few moments before taking the mug and sipping carefully. A tiny smile appeared to his lips.

It tasted just the way that it was supposed to.

* * *

Sherlock was distracted from his brand new experiment by the sound of a new text message. He wasn't surprised to discover that it was from John.

'_Thank you. Just so you know, if it WAS poisoned I'll NEVER tell you where I hid your cigarettes this time. J.W._'

In the covers of solitude and semi-dark Sherlock gave a mysterious smirk, slipping his cell phone to his pocket. The following morning found John feeling much better than before. Sherlock kept his secrets to himself.

* * *

_Scene Completed._

* * *

A/N: Coming from me, that was… almost unnervingly lighthearted. (smirks and chuckles) But oh boy, I've got several more planned out…

So… Any good? A bit of not good? PLEASE, leave a review and let me know!  
**AND PLEASE, IF YOU HAVE IDEAS OF 'DELETED SCENES' YOU'D LIKE TO READ LET ME KNOW!** I'd be more than happy to make requests.

Thank you so much for reading!  
'Hope I'll see you guys later.

Take care!


	2. After the Pool (A Scandal in Belgravia)

A/N: I'm back, folks, and with a new lil' piece no less! (grins) Yay?

First, though, thank you so much for the reviews, love and support you've given this lil' experiment of mine thus far! (BEAMS, and hugs) I've never typed a oneshot collection quite like this before, so I'm thrilled that you're all on board.

Awkay, because I doubt that my babbling's what drew you here… Let's go! I truly hope that you'll enjoy this one. This bit was something I had in mind before I ever posted the first bit and my thought was confirmed by a request. (smirks)

* * *

TAKES PLACE: Right after Sherlock and John's first encounter with Moriarty.

* * *

After the Pool – 'A Scandal in Belgravia'

* * *

Dr. John Watson's head was pounding while he sat on a bench, doing his best to explain just what'd taken place during his time in Moriarty's hands. The questions flooded on and on. Repeating themselves.

Couldn't they see that he just wanted to go home?

When the Yard was through with him it was the medics' turn. He absolutely hated the orange blanket they forced on him. Even more than he despised the looks of pity darted his way. It took absolutely all he had to remain polite.

No, he didn't have a concussion. He was a doctor. And even if he wasn't he had enough unfortunate first hand experience the recognize the signs.

No, he didn't have broken bones. It was likely that his ribs were bruised, though. The strikes he received were enough to ensure that.

NO, he definitely didn't want to go to a hospital. He wanted to go home, rest and preferably attempt to forget the fact that he just almost bloody died. But first he wanted a nice, warm cup of tea because he was _freezing_. And he refused to believe that it was the shock talking.

All of a sudden the buzzing seemed to fade away. Somewhat dimly he realized that a dark figure just sat beside him. There was open worry in DI Greg Lestrade's eyes. "Quite a night, the two of you had."

John couldn't restrain himself. The chuckle that erupted carried a touch of hysteria. "I suppose so", he admitted.

"Are you alright?"

John nodded, and meant it. Well, perhaps he wasn't _completely_ alright yet but he would be. "Not my first near death experience." _Or the closest call._ He glanced towards his right. "I'm… not sure about Sherlock, though."

The Yarders had long since decided that trying to interrogate Sherlock Holmes just wasn't worth the effort. At the moment the detective was pacing around, arms folded and clearly not even noticing the orange blanket flung over his shoulders. Sherlock appeared several shades paler than normal and there was a scowl of irritation on the detective's face. With each step the man's lips kept uttering words John could only begin to guess. It looked like… Sherlock was having a rather intense and quite loud debate with himself.

Greg frowned, staring at the detective. The man's expression lingered somewhere between annoyance, marvel, fear, worry and confusion. "What is he doing?"

John shook his head, unsure what to make of his friend's bizarre condition. He wished he knew. "I live with him and this goes beyond me."

Greg's eyes softened all of a sudden with realization. "I… think that you gave him a scare tonight." Seeing his stun the DI grew slightly more solemn. "I'm serious, John. He'd never, ever admit it even to himself, but you're… special to him. Don't ever forget that, no matter how much of a pain in the arse he can be."

"I suppose so", John admitted softly. He didn't feel the need to point out that Sherlock did just endanger national security to save his life. The doctor got up slowly, carefully, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that his feet actually carried him. He wondered if he'd even dare to risk walking. "I'd better take him home. If Donovan and Anderson see him like that…"

Greg nodded. "I know." The man looked at him, the worry still loud and clear. "Look, if you need anything, at all…"

John nodded. The smile on his lips was tiny but genuine. "I know. Thank you."

To John's amazement Sherlock didn't show any signs of a protest when he urged the detective to come along. They didn't exchange a word before or during the cab drive home, both of them too wired up and deep in thought. The building was dark when they stumbled in. John was glad. Poor Mrs. Hudson would've had a heart attack if she'd seen her boys like that.

Rather futilely attempting to calm his thundering heart John sauntered towards the kitchen, his thoughts speeding a million miles per hour. How was it possible that he could still feel the bloody bomb's weight pressed around his chest? "How about tea?" He had no idea if he was talking more to himself or Sherlock. His hands were eerily steady, adrenaline still striking him high. He swallowed, unable to get rid of the bizarre taste in his mouth. "We should have…"

The unmistakable sounds of Sherlock fiddling with his violin cut the question short. John rolled his eyes, the familiarity of it all offering some balm on his fried nerves. He peered into the living room, only to find something that froze him to the spot for several seconds.

Sherlock had slumped to the couch, the violin in a loose hold and playing lazily with the strings. For most there would've been nothing out of the ordinary about the sight. But unlike Sherlock usually assumed John _did_ see _and _observe. That haunted look shouldn't have belonged into his best friend's eyes.

A frown appearing John approached with slow steps. He didn't bother to even try to find the correct way of approaching – with Sherlock such didn't exist. "Are you… alright?"

That, at very least, earned him a reaction. Sherlock's eyes flashed almost dangerously as the violin was cast aside with a force that almost broke the item. The detective was suddenly moving. Pacing around like a caged tiger. "Alright? Am I _alright_? John, you _are_ an idiot!" The detective's hands were moving animatedly while the mouth and eyes kept raging on. "I almost bloody killed you! So no, I'm _not_ alright!"

It was impossible to tell which one of them was more shocked by the admission. It took what felt like ages before John finally found his voice. "Sherlock…"

"You offered to die for me!" As though someone had pressed 'play' right after a momentary 'pause' Sherlock was off again. It was impossible to tell if adrenaline high, the room's light or something else entirely caused the suspicious amount of moisture in the taller man's eyes. "And then… Then you signalled me that it was quite alright to take the shot that would've killed us both – would've killed _you_! You were ready to die _twice_ today, John! And that's… That's _unacceptable_, do you understand! Unacceptable!"

John's eyes flashed as his frown deepened. "Sherlock", he tried again. Unsurprisingly without much of a response. He could've as well attempted to have a conversation with a wall of bricks. "Sherlock, calm down. You're about to hyperventilate."

"You don't get to die, John!" Sherlock's hands and body were almost unnervingly still. The eyes, though, were a different story. They bore into his with something that on anyone else's face might've been called despair. (Heaven knows Sherlock Holmes was a stranger such.) "For anyone. Are we clear?" Then, just like nothing had ever happened, the detective was on the couch once more, back turned towards him in a manner that could've easily been called sulking. "What… I experienced there, at the pool, was… unfortunate. I don't care to experience it ever again."

John didn't know if he should've been touched or very, very afraid. The desire to smile made one edge of his mouth twitch. "Eh… Well, then… I try not to…" Looking at his friend's stiff back he sighed, feeling absolutely exhausted now that all the adrenaline and frenzy was leaving his system. "I'm still alive, though. I'll be right upstairs, if you need me."

"Why would I need you?"

John observed Sherlock for a few moments. Then, in the secrecy of shadows, allowed himself a tiny, tired and very much knowing smile. "Goodnight", he murmured, beginning to make his retreat. "I know that it's against your nature but try to get some rest, alright? We can't have that hard drive of yours frying over."

Sherlock didn't utter a word, of course. But John heard the man shift. It was more than enough to confirm his hypothesis.

John ended up falling asleep on top of his bed covers, fully clothed and possibly more exhausted than ever in his life. It was quite alright. He had no dreams.

* * *

The following morning John woke up to discover that his abused ribs, abdonimal muscles and head were punishing him dearly for the previous night's dreadful adventure. He groaned and squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a few moments.

For some reason the first thing he noticed was that the flat was completely, utterly quiet. Sherlock had gone out, then, because there was no way the detective could've still been asleep. For some reason the thought that he was all alone made John's stomach drop just a little bit.

It took several moments before John overcame the sleepy haze enough to realize that something was off. There… was a blanket covering him, making him feel pleasantly warm. And as he turned, slowly and his body protesting vehemently, he discovered a couple of painkillers and a glass of water from his nightstand.

John allowed himself another secret smile. Warmth filled him, not wiping away the pain but soothing it. "You're welcome", he murmured into the glass.

* * *

When John finally managed to leave the room about an hour later he discovered that he'd been mistaken. Sherlock hadn't left. In fact the detective was more or less fast asleep on the couch. Face pale and dark bags underneath his eyes.

Had Sherlock… tried to wait for him to wake up?

John rolled his eyes at the absurd thought.

Of course not.

His motions soft and tender John took an old, worn quilt he discovered cast nearby and inched closer to his friend. As carefully as he could, not wanting to disturb Sherlock's much needed rest, he lay the quilt on the sleeping detective. With no further signs of sentiment he headed soundlessly towards the kitchen, deciding that tea was exactly what the moment called for.

He never saw the slight smile that appeared to Sherlock's lips while the detective wrapped the quilt a little more tightly around himself.

* * *

_Scene completed._

* * *

A/N: Heh, it's nice to make slightly softer bits for change. We'll see how long this trend continues… (chuckles) Those are just too adorable.

PLEASE, do leave a note to let me know if that was any good in your books! And do keep the requests coming! I'd be thrilled to take a shot with them. (does the 'puppy eyes' trick once again)

Anyways, thank you so much for reading! Who knows, maybe you'll even stop by again…?

Take care!

* * *

**Sarah**: I'm thrilled to hear that you're enjoying this consept. (grins from ear to ear) 'Hope that you'll keep having fun with this one.

Huge thank yous for the review!


	3. Getting a Drugged Sherlock Home (A Scand

A/N: Yup, I'm baaaaack already with another one! (grins) This sort of popped out on its own at around midnight, of all times, so I allowed it to come and polished once I was a bit more… coherent. 'Didn't see any point in stalling the publishing.

GOSH! Thank you, THANK YOU, for all of the reviews and listing and hits you've given this collection thus far. I can't believe that this is receiving so much love! (BEAMS) You're making me a insanely happy person.

Awkay… (takes a breath) It's time to launch, no? Two fantastic people requested this and I REALLY wanted to type this. 'Hope this pleases ya!

* * *

Getting a Drugged Sherlock Home – 'A Scandal in Belgravia'

* * *

Over the years DI Greg Lestrade had known Sherlock Holmes he'd learned a lot of things about the detective. Enough to deduce that it might be a good idea to first go alone into the room where he knew the mad genius to be. What he discovered made his eyes widen a fraction although he'd thought that _nothing_ would surprise him anymore.

Dr. John Watson was cursing rather colorfully under his breath while attempting to haul Sherlock's limp body off the floor. Worry and annoyance danced in the smaller man's eyes as the stubborn doctor attempted to fight the laws of physics. Sherlock's head lulled listlessly with each movement and there was a nearly dreamy look on the passed out detective's face, like the man had been having a nice dream.

Greg's eyebrow bounced up. "Dare I ask?" Nope, he probably _didn't_ want to know.

John cast a all but desperate look towards him. "A little help?" The former soldier went on once he'd taken Sherlock's other side, helping support the very, very heavily dozed genius. "The bloody idiot went and let himself get drugged. We have to get him home before he ends up into even more of a mess."

Greg winced, dread rushing through him. Sure enough, Sherlock was thin but the tall man was also dead weight dragged between the two of them. "Mess, John?"

John gestured vaguely. "There's a unconscious woman over there", the doctor explained rather dryly. "And downstairs you'll find a bunch of Americans." As though feeling his tension the doctor seemed to feel the need to add. "Sherlock didn't do it, I swear. Well, _all of_ it, anyway. _She_ was prepared for intruders." Did the smaller man's hold on the genius just tighten?

Greg blinked twice, trying to process it all. _These two are going to be the death of me…!_ "You mean Adler?" Where was _she_, anyway?

As it turned out they had no further time to discuss. For Sherlock, who mercifully had his head bent to a definitely uncomfortable but safe position, chose that very moment to throw up. John swore again, the man's voice shivering with barely repressed worry. Greg groaned, mentally swearing that as soon as the detective was feeling better the man would _pay_ for making him do _this_.

Just then the sounds of the Yard's battalion marching in reached their ears. John's body language was loud and clear. Stiff, leaned so that he was all but shielding Sherlock, eyes alert and prepared. Under different circumstances it might've made Greg smile. (God knows, Sherlock needed someone crazy enough to stand up for him like that.) "Should you…?"

Greg waved his free hand. "I think that they won't be able to cause a lot of destruction in twenty minutes." He glanced towards the still quite lethargic Sherlock, feeling a surprisingly strong pang of concern. "Unlike this one." He glanced around. "A backdoor?"

John scoffed. The doctor's eyes gained a foreign, steely gleam. "A woman like _her_ is going to need five."

On their way out Sherlock threw up twice more. Greg scowled, not quite sure if he'd be able to resist the urge to punch the moron of a genius after making sure that the man wouldn't die on them. It was going to be a very, very long drive to Baker Street.

* * *

During the, as predicted, painfully long drive Greg learned at least one version of what took place in Irene Adler's house. Once Sherlock almost woke up, muttering something incoherent. The DI would've been ready to bet a small amount of money that one of the words he heard was "…dull…".

Greg had seen with his own two eyes just how deep the companionship between his insane friends went. But he didn't see the true extend until they'd in some miraculous way managed to haul Sherlock into the flat and safely into the detective's bed. Switching to his doctor mode John hovered around the still knocked out detective, measuring pulse and blood pressure, checking pupils, making sure that the taller man was in a safe position in case the man might end up vomiting again. The doctor's eyes were, however, what revealed the truth. There was a breathtaking amount worry and wrenching guilt in them. The man's hands were unnaturally steady.

Greg offered his friend a sympathy filled look, leaning against the room's doorframe. "It's not your fault, you know? How were you supposed to know that this would turn out to be the one bloody time Sherlock ends up making a gigantic error of judgement."

John took a deep, shuddering breath. "I _should've_ known to expect this. Babysitting him is a full time job." The doctor gritted his teeth. "If he _ever_ risks himself like this again I won't be sparing his nose and teeth."

Greg blinked twice. Then frowned. "What?"

John offered no response. Instead they both jumped slightly with surprise when Sherlock mumbled, the detective's hand flailing like the man had been attempting to chase away a swarm of flies circling around his head. There was a extremely child like, highly irritated pout on the genius' face. "…g'ay, Anderson."

Greg didn't know if he wanted to groan, worry or laugh. "Christ…! What did she give him?"

John sighed with his shoulders slumping, clearly preparing himself for a very long, tedious day and night. "Your guess is as good as mine." The worry wasn't as prominent anymore but it definitely lingered there.

Greg bit his lip not to chuckle when Sherlock made another wave, smacked himself and huffed in annoyance afterwards. "He'll be fine, right?" Because he'd feel like a really, really bad person for finding this all absolutely hilarious if…

John nodded slowly. "His pulse and blood pressure are a lot more stable and he's becoming responsive. By morning he should be back to all his glory."

Greg sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. Of course it'd take far more than getting drugged to bring down the mighty Holmes. "And heaven help us."

At that moment a sound that stunned them both erupted from Sherlock. Eyes still closed and more than halfway unconscious the detective began to giggle in a very bubbly, almost childish way. Greg couldn't even imagine what the genius was dreaming of. Did Sherlock just start… clapping? "… again…!"

"Okay, this is it." Not caring if it made a absolutely horrible friend out of him Greg took his cell phone, taking a set of pictures while the detective's stoned episode continued. "_No one _is going to believe this."

John's eyebrow arched. The beginning of a smile lingered on the man's lips. "Are you sure that that's a good idea? He'll just find them and delete them."

Greg smirked, checking over the pictures he managed to capture. _Priceless._ "Oh, I know. But I'll have fun until then." Growing slightly more solemn he gave Sherlock a one more worried glance before focusing on John. "I have to go back to Adler's house. Are you sure that you'll manage with him?"

John sighed. "No. But what choice do I have?"

Greg gave his friend a sympathy filled look and a pat on the shoulder before starting to take his leave. "Call me if you need anything, alright? Either one of you."

"I will. Thank you."

Greg could only admire the soldier's bravery. Or perhaps it was masochism. Just before heading out the DI was almost sure that he heard another giggle, followed by a slightly more clear "Ahoy!". He winced, having a rather clear idea of what might've been going through John's head just then.

Morning couldn't come fast enough.

* * *

The second time Sherlock woke up properly he was pleased to discover that his head was functioning at least slightly more properly and that he was even able to take more than five steps without tripping over his own feet. He shook his head and frowned, attempting to piece together what the bloody hell had happened. That was when he saw his coat.

_Oh…!_

Hold on. He was drugged out cold. He wasn't proud to admit it but that was what happened. So how did he…?

"John?" The name slipped out before he'd even processed it properly. There was no response and he felt a shiver he would've never, ever willingly called that of worry. "John!" Still nothing.

Pushing his still half asleep body to its limit Sherlock fought his way out of the room. His mind was buzzing with all sorts of theories of what might be going on. What he found was none of them.

John, who'd most likely struggled with all his might to remain awake, had fallen asleep sitting on the couch. A small frown on his slightly ashen face and hair a disheveled mess. Right next door, just as his blogger promised. The doctor's eyelids fluttered and for a moment Sherlock wondered if the man was waking up. Apparently not. It was the dreams taking over. John seemed to be sleeping lightly, though, the soldier in him not daring to sink deeper while he was on a mission.

Sherlock stayed there for a few moments, determined that he didn't linger just to make sure that those intense dreams wouldn't turn into nightmares. When John exhaled a calm, deep breath the detective turned and headed back into his room. John would've told him to get more rest, anyway, right?

Sherlock, despite all his talents, was unaware of the smile on his face. He slept deeply and dreamlessly for a few more hours. Who wouldn't rest peacefully with Captain Dr. John Watson guarding them?

* * *

_Scene completed._

* * *

A/N: (grins) I probably enjoyed typing a drugged Sherlock heck a lot more than I should've. (snickers) I hope that you guys enjoyed, too!

PLEASE, leave a note to let me know your thoughts! (gives puppy's eyes) And remember, I'm still VERY open to all the requests you may have as to which deleted scenes I should include. I'll have tons of fun with the requests I've received thus far. (smirks)

Thank you so much for reading this!

Take care!

* * *

**Sarah**: I'm really glad to hear that you enjoyed it. (beams) I just couldn't help picturing that in my head as the aftermath.

'Hope you'll stay tuned for more.

Monumental thank yous for the review!


	4. A Colleague (The Blind Banker)

A/N: Well, this collection sure has been on a LONG summer break. (winces apologetically) I'm so sorry, you guys! Hectic schedules suck. (pouts) Buuuut, now this is back ON! And guess what? I've got one 'scene left out' after this done. Yay?

First, though, THANK YOU so much for your reviews, listings and support! I wasn't sure if anyone would read stuff like this when I first got started. You guys have baffled me! (beams) So thank you.

Awkay… Before you guys get all sick of my rambling let's rock! I REALLY hope that this turns out worthy of the long wait. This idea was requested and I totally fell for the idea.

* * *

A Colleague – 'The Blind Banker'

* * *

Sherlock Holmes wasn't supposed to have a heart. And he most certainly wasn't supposed to have… _feelings_. That's why he was extremely irritated by the unpleasant… _thing_ – ache – nagging in his chest.

It was the first time he ever called anyone a friend willingly. Meaning it. He wondered if John knew that.

Of course John couldn't possibly know. Because John was an idiot. Just like all the rest of them.

It was just that… John was _supposed to be _different.

Sherlock wasn't exactly sure when it happened. This… becoming friends thing. When he realized that John had shot the cabbie, perhaps. Or maybe it was with the first time the former soldier called him brilliant.

Sherlock had tried to deduce his way around it, of course. Because since when had he started making… _friends_? Friends were useless. Caring wasn't an advantage.

But, as it turned out, he did seem to care too bloody much about John's opinion.

John considered him a colleague, not a friend.

And it _hurt_, far more than it should've.

What made the situation all the more infuriating was that it seemed John didn't even realize that there was something wrong. The man who was usually so very sensitive towards the feelings of others kept going on like nothing had ever happened. Sherlock had no idea what to do with the frustrated anger that realization brought.

So Sherlock did what came naturally to him. What he'd done a lot of times in his life. What'd helped him maintain whatever little sanity he had left.

He locked up into himself. Focused on the case. Wandered around the world inside of his head, nearly getting lost on the maze like pathways.

It was the work that mattered, anyway. Wasn't that what he told John, too, almost as soon as they met? It was the case that he was supposed to focus on.

And John… John could do whatever the bloody heck he wanted. Think whatever the man wanted in that boring head of his. Because it didn't bloody matter.

If John wanted to be just colleagues… then so be it.

It wasn't like Sherlock would've even cared, anyway.

* * *

At first Dr. John Watson didn't pay much attention to the symptoms. He was sure that it was just the typical Sherlock Holmes, focused on a case. But eventually it registered to him that something was off. Sherlock becoming eerily quiet was a definite sign.

His flatmate was sulking.

In fact… If he hadn't known better he would've said that Sherlock appeared hurt, somehow. John paused on that thought. Had he said or done something? For the life of him he couldn't come up with anything that could result to… _this_. And he very much doubted that Sherlock would ever make the first move and reveal what was the matter.

John was a trauma surgeon and a soldier. With the same courage he needed in both of those professions he finally faced the taller man, who was at the moment sprawled on a couch, back towards him. "Alright, then", he stated with a sigh. "Let's get this sorted. You haven't moved from that spot in several hours. When I try to talk to you all I get is grumpy muttering." His voice and eyes softened while he tried to analyze the clearly upset detective. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

Well, at leat he finally got a proper reaction. Sherlock scoffed, those arms folding even more tightly. The man's eyes held a undisguisable touch of bitterness when they peered at him. "I'm merely your _colleague_, John. Why should my state of mind be any of your concern?"

It took a couple of seconds before those words actually sunk in. Guilt hit John like a sledgehammer. He swallowed loudly, feeling very uncomfortable in his own skin all of a sudden. "Sherlock…"

Apparently his flatmate wasn't about to listen. So swiftly that it startled John Sherlock was up, storming away. "Save it. I have far more important matters to focus on."

John gritted his teeth. Oh, no, there was no way in hell he was going to let this slide! "Sherlock, sit down! NOW!" He was using his military voice. At the moment he didn't care. "You're not going anywhere until we've talked this through."

By some miracle his voice actually seemed to have an affect. He stared with quite open disbelief when Sherlock actually slumped back down. Sulking like a toddler with a severe temper tantrum but still.

John took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, wondering where in the world he should begin. "I'm… sorry." Well, that was the most logical part. Surely Sherlock would appreciate logic? He inhaled sharply, shifting weight when the familiar psychosomatic twinge reminded of itself once more. "I… underestimated how much our… companionship means to you."

Sherlock's eyebrow bounced up while the detective emitted a far from impressed snort. "Companionship? Really, John."

John growled impatiently, feeling exasperated. There just were no right words with Sherlock. "What would you call it, then?"

Sherlock leaned his head backwards, so that John couldn't see the man's face. Obviously the detective wasn't planning to make this easy on him. "Hmph."

John sighed and buried his face into his hands, silently praying for strength. Then sighed again and focused on his _friend_. "Look… The reason I used that word was because I was feeling… uncomfortable. Especially because I have a nasty feeling of what kind of a 'friend' Wilkes had in mind." He gritted his teeth. "But… I shot a man to save your goddamn life before I even knew you. And you cured my limp before you even knew me. Surely you now that it means that you're not just a person I work and share my living space with."

Sherlock, clearly not quite done with sulking, didn't react in any way.

John groaned and steeled himself before continuing. "The thing is… I know that this is going to sound incredibly sad, but… Right now the one with you is the most meaningful relationship in my life. And considering the way you keep dragging me around on cases constantly it'll remain that way for a long time. The body parts laying around everywhere don't help matters, either."

Finally Sherlock spoke out. "You're babbling, John." Was that… amusement?

A tiny, somewhat cautious smile appeared to John's lips. "Well, pardon me if I'm a tad bit uncomfortable with this monologue." He sighed, managing to relax only marginally. "Sherlock, I'm sorry."

Sherlock didn't offer him a proper response. Of course the bloody git didn't. But the silence between them didn't feel quite so heavy and loaded anymore.

The signal of a text message startled them both. It took Sherlock only moments to recover enough to give the cell phone a look. In a flash the detective was up and about, that comfortingly familiar glint in his eyes.

"There's a clue to be investigated." Sherlock's eyes swept briefly towards him while the man put his coat on. When he didn't make a move one eyebrow arched with what looked like irritation and something a lot more. "Well? Are you coming?"

This time the smile that appeared to John's lips was bright. With a weight lifted from his chest he moved easily, hasty to catch up with his flatmate. "Yes, of course! Just… Just give me a bloody minute!"

Sherlock gave a frustrated grunt, marching out of the door. But the detective's steps were slower than usual. There was a air of expectance in the air. And somehow John heard the real words lingering there although they were never voiced.

_You're forgiven._

* * *

_Scene completed._

* * *

A/N: I just LOVE those two. To bits. (chuckles) You can't even imagine how much fun I had typing this!

I really hope that you enjoyed, too. Please, do leave a note down beeeeelow to let me know. It'd totally make me goofy happy. (gives puppy's eyes)

NEXT UP: In 'The Hounds of Baskerville' a mine blew up – along with a man. Right in front of John, who's been battling PTSD. How could he have possibly reacted? And what would Sherlock have done…?

Until next time, folks! I really hope that you'll be joining in then.

Take care!

* * *

**Sarah**: Awww, I'm really glad to hear that you enjoyed it so! (grins from ear to ear) Sometimes it just feels so good to type something sweet.

'Hope the next one pleases you as well.

Gigantic thank yous for the review!


	5. A Minefield Flashback (The Hounds of Bas

A/N: It took a tad bit longer than I first planned to get this shipped out. Life got in the way, I suppose. (grins sheepishly) But this is here now. Yay?

First, of course! Thank you so much for your reviews and support! (beams and hugs) This collection is something entirely new to me so it means particularly lot that you're out there. And keep in mind, I still take requests!

Awkay, because stalling is never kind… Let's get going! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

THIS SCENE TAKES PLACE directly after the mine went off in 'Baskerville'. This was requested and personally, it's always irked me a bit that John's reaction was never shown.

* * *

A Minefield Flashback – 'The Hounds of Baskerville'

* * *

/ _The heat that wrapped around John was unbelievable, suffocating. He knew that he should've grown used to it already but even today it seemed to take his breath away. His eyes squinted underneath his sunglasses, sweeping through the desert around the car his team occupied._

_"Look!" The shout of Micheal Ollen startled him out of whatever thought he'd managed to get lost into. There was a determined gleam in the younger man's surreally green eyes. Some droplets of sweat shone on the line of the man's shortcut, black hair. "There, on the sand! Do you see her?"_

_Michael Ollen. The youngest one of them, still just a boy. Arrived into this hell on Earth only three weeks earlier. Still so very determined and convinced that he'd be able to save everyone. John envied such blind trust._

_Turning his head with a frown John spotted quickly what Michael was talking about. About forty or so steps away lay a woman on her stomach, her head turned away from them. Some blood stained the sand around her. She wasn't moving. Her position made it impossible to tell if she was even breathing. Considering the heat and the amount of blood it was highly unlikely._

_Michael, however, seemed to think differently. Before the rest of them managed to make a move to stop him the young man was dashing towards the woman with determination burning in his eyes. Convinced that this life was still his to save._

_"Mikey, don't!" Sheer terror colored John's voice. His eyes were wide behind the glasses. The others were shouting as well while he raised his voice once more. "Mikey, bloody hell, stop! It could be a…!"_

_Michael managed to make exactly twenty steps before the carefully hidden mine went off. The impact hit the car, shoving John backwards and bringing a horrific ringing into his ears._

_"MIKEY!"_ /

* * *

The explosion was deafening. Sherlock groaned, pressing his hands to his ears to lessen the highly irritating ringing sound. Adrenaline was rushing through his veins, reminding him all too clearly of days when there was a different kind of high.

Just as Sherlock managed to catch his breath he discovered something out of the corner of his eye that chilled him. Beside him John was trembling violently, eyes wide and a glazed over look in them. The detective knew what was going on long before the screaming began.

_Shit…!_

"Mikey, don't!" So much despair… Such naked terror…

"John?" Greg, who obviously hadn't quite caught on yet, approached the doctor cautiously. Worry was clearly visible in the DI's eyes. Of course there was no response. John… wasn't quite with them at the moment. "John, what…?"

"Mikey, bloody hell, stop! It could be a trap!" The doctor took one step forward, then another. "It's a trap!"

Greg, who clearly didn't have enough experience on handling people with PTSD, chose to act on what was plain reason. The man wrapped his arms firmly around John from behind, attempting to root the doctor to the spot. "John, don't!"

The trapped war veteran reacted in the first way his brain signaled. The smaller man began to trash, twisting himself and emitting loud sounds of displeasure. Greg was starting to have severe problems with maintaining his hold.

That was when Sherlock decided to step in. "Greg, let go of him, you idiot!" Irritation and something he couldn't quite recognize swirled underneath his skin. "You have to let go."

Greg half glared at him with eyes that questioned his sanity. The terror on the older man's face was even greater than before. "He's going to get himself killed!"

Sherlock shook his head, gritting his teeth to avoid saying something he might actually regret – just a little bit – later. "No, he won't." His voice was tight and full of impatience. "Let go, _now_."

In fact John was already almost out of the DI's grasp. A helpless look taking over his face Greg obeyed with a palpable amount of reluctance. Instantly John took another couple of steps towards the minefield, those desperate screams continuing. For some reason they stung Sherlock a lot more than they should've.

Taking a deep breath Sherlock positioned himself between John and the field. "John, listen to me!" he commanded, unsure of how loud he was with his ears still ringing. "You're not in Afganistan! This is Baskerville and you're approaching a minefield! Can you hear me? Snap out of it!"

But John was nowhere near coming out of the trap of his own mind. Something that really, honestly scared Sherlock took over the smaller man's eyes. And then John was screaming once more, directly at him. This time not in English.

* * *

/ _John was the one to gather himself the fastest. He was shaking all over when he pushed himself up, just enough to see. Despite the unbearable heat his blood froze._

_Michael… was definitely gone. There was nothing left of the painfully young man. Nothing to send home to be buried._

_And further away the woman was rising. Slowly and unsteadily but still. Her eyes turned towards him, sensing his stare._

_Rage, grief, disappointment and bitterness washed over John. His eyes stung hellishly as he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "_He was trying to help you!_" A tear may have rolled but he wasn't sure. He wished from the bottom of his heart that he would've been able to move, to do anything, but his limbs felt like lead. He couldn't even reach out for his gun. "_He… He was only trying to help you! He was trying to help!_"_

_The torn look in the woman's eyes he was just able to see would haunt John until the end of his days. She didn't offer a single word, didn't take another glance towards the devastation she'd help cause. Instead she turned around and walked away._

_John only ever met her again in his nightmares._ /

* * *

"Sherlock?" In some other situation how timid Greg sounded would've been mildly amusing. The man appeared several shades paler than usual. "What's going on? What is he saying?"

Sherlock gulped thickly. John's words washing over him, a realization dawning. "Irrelevant", he barked out, forcing his focus back on the distraught man. "JOHN! _Listen_ to me! What you're seeing isn't real anymore, do you understand? The war is far away! You're not there anymore! So snap out of it! John!"

Both of John's fists balled, so tightly that the man's knuckles turned white. The look on the doctor's face changed, became something foreign. For a while Sherlock was _sure_ that he'd be punched. And then it was over.

A bizarre, wrenching moan erupted through John's lips before the smaller man slumped unexpectedly, as though having lost absolutely all of his strength. Sherlock's heart was hammering madly when he caught his friend just before the doctor would've hit the ground. John's clung to him so tightly that it hurt.

"It's alright, John." Sherlock's voice was the usual firm, smooth baritone. He wondered which one of them was trembling. Perhaps both. "It's over."

John didn't make a sound. Looking down Sherlock discovered that the smaller man's eyes were once more aware but wide, full of ghosts and shadows. The nightmare was over only partially.

There was a frown on Greg's face as the man approached cautiously. "John?" When no reply came the man fixed a demanding, concerned look towards Sherlock. "Is he… okay?"

Sherlock growled. "Obviously not", he snarled. Then took a deep breath, deciding that now wasn't the time to lash out. "Let's get away from here."

Greg nodded slowly. Without exchanging another word they stood on both sides of John. The long, tedious march out of the nightmare began. Henry Knight, still in a shock and quite justifiably confused beyond words, began to follow them after a long hesitation.

* * *

For several hours the only words John spoke were "Thank you" when they'd finally made it to the motel. Before Sherlock and Greg could ask a thing the doctor retreated to the bathroom. The sound of a shower could be heard for ages.

John stood there for the longest time, his eyes squeezed tightly shut and trembling right down to the core of his being. His legs felt so wobbly that he barely managed to stand although he was leaning heavily against the wall. With the painfully hot water running over him it was impossible to tell if he was crying.

When John finally felt clean enough, once the feeling of suffocating had subsides slightly, he stepped out of the shower carefully. Pleased to discover that he was actually able to move unaided he toweled himself, his hands still trembling pitiably. He gritted his teeth, furious with himself for the inability to chase away the bloody ghosts haunting him. After getting dressed he took a few more moments to compose him before emerging.

Sherlock sat in a armchair as he walked into the room. Apparently it was already morning because the genius was reading the day's newspaper. Two mugs and a tea pot stood waiting on a small table.

"In case you're wondering I sent Lestrade away when he started nodding off." Sherlock turned the page, still not looking towards him. "It was getting highly irritating."

John swallowed thickly, shifting his weight with discomfort. Now, with his head working much better, the events from before felt highly embarrassing. "About, uh… About earlier…" He ran a hand through his hair and licked his lips, wondering how in the world he should continue.

"You have no obligation to explain anything." He could've sworn that although Sherlock's eyes flickered on him for less than five seconds they saw _everything_. Some other day he might've found it infuriating. "Feeling better?"

John nodded cautiously, not quite trusting his spinning and buzzing head. "Yeah." 'Fine' would've been exaggerating. But 'better'? Surely. He glanced towards the tea pot. Instantly his stomach rumbled loudly as a protest. "Sherlock… Thank you, for the tea. But…"

"Go to bed, John. You look ready to keel over." Sherlock turned the page, shifting his position marginally. "You can get us another pot later."

The beginning of a smile tickled the corners of John's lips. Deciding that he was too exhausted for any sort of debates he slipped obediently into the warm, inviting bed. His eyes began to droop as soon as his head hit the pillow. "What 'bout you?" He was already slurring. More than halfway on his way under.

"I don't need rest right now." Sherlock's voice seemed to come from somewhere very, very far away. His eyes already closed John heard a page being turned. "Goodnight, John."

John honestly had no idea if he replied or not. In a matter of moments he was fast asleep. He didn't have any dreams.

Afterwards John didn't have the heart to point out that Sherlock had been reading the newspaper upside down.

* * *

_Scene completed._

* * *

A/N: Heh. Those two… They've totally gotten under my skin. And I have nothing against it. (smirks) They're just too adorable!

Sooooo… Was that any good, at all? Or something to be deleted immediately? PLEASE, leave a note and let me know! Awww, it's the easiest good deed you could possibly do today. (winks)

I'm tuning out now. I really hope that I'll be seeing you guys later, with whatever story it might be!

Take care!


	6. Feeling Better? (The Great Game)

A/N: Back with another bit! (beams) Yay?

First, though… THANK YOU, intensely and deeply, for all your love and support thus far! Gosh, you guys sure have made these lil' pieces feel adored. And to think that I was really hesitant to get started with these…! (beams and hugs)

IN THIS ONE: There's this one bit in 'The Great Game' that made me arch an eyebrow. There was a jump from the scene where Sherlock and John found out that the guy strapped to a bomb was safe and sound (with Sherlock's smile that I'll NEVER forget), to a scene of them in a restaurant with Sherlock drumming his fingers while asking if John's feeling better and the doctor wolfing down food. I wonder if I'm the only one who's been left wondering 'What did he mean, feeling better?', but I couldn't resist the temptation to fill in that "gap". (smirks sheepishly)

I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy this one!

* * *

Feeling Better? – 'The Great Game'

* * *

As a doctor John was all too familiar with the limitations of a human body. He was also sadly familiar with the fact that _Sherlock's_ body seemed to defy each and every single one of those limitations. That combination was bound to cause problems sooner or later.

In the middle of a mad bomber's game John's body, apparently, decided that it'd had enough of the neglect.

Swiftly putting the laptop aside Sherlock bounced up, eyes still bright from adrenaline high. The man's gaze barely shifted from the pink cell phone. The pacing that began did nothing to ease the headache that was clawing inside John's skull.

John groaned, rubbing his face with both hands when a unexpected wave of dizziness washed through. "Sherlock…"

"Be quiet." The detective's eyes narrowed while a predatory look took over them. "The next round begins very soon. I need to be ready."

John sighed, his shoulders slumping. How many hours had they been working on this case? Or was it days already? He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt as exhausted. The fact that he couldn't remember the last time he ate, either, did nothing to help with how lousy he was feeling.

Perhaps a cup of tea might help, just a little bit. Not managing to find as much comfort from that thought as he'd hoped John hauled his body up. Which turned out to be a huge mistake.

The moment he was up _everything_ was spinning. Spinning, even when his line of vision began to turn black. No longer able to support his own weight John slumped back to the chair heavily, noticing with a great deal of displeasure that the world was still swaying madly even as he was down.

Sherlock's eyes flickered his way, the concentration on the case at hand disturbed momentarily. The younger man frowned. "John? Are you alright?"

John felt very tempted to snap something somewhat nasty. But the genuine concern on his friend's face softened the annoyance and frustration. "Yeah." He blinked a few times, pleased to discover the worst of dizziness was beginning to subside. "I just…" He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed all of a sudden. "I could use something to eat, I suppose. Not everyone can function like you."

The frown on Sherlock's face deepened. Those piercing eyes examined him from head to toe, seeing and observing. "Why didn't you say anything if you were feeling unwell?"

"You were working on a case. Would you have listened?" John emitted a sigh. True enough Sherlock's worry was endearing but right now… "Sherlock, I'm fine." His statement might've been a great deal more convincing if his voice hadn't sounded off even to his own ears. He attempted to get up again. "I just need to sit…" It was then the spinning and swaying flooded back, sending his whole world to a violent blur.

And then everything went dark.

* * *

John woke up to the sound of someone snapping their fingers. He frowned and groaned, wishing that the irritating noise would go away. He was already having a bloody headache!

"John?" Yes, he most definitely knew that baritone. It betrayed no emotions. "You're awake. So open your eyes."

After a bit of a struggle John's eyelids indeed did slide open, only a bit but still. His frown deepened at the blurry mess before him until his vision cleared. Sherlock had, apparently, moved him to the floor and lifted his legs to the chair, for he was looking up at their ceiling and a pair of stormy, intense eyes. He licked his lips, trying to clear his head. "How long…?"

"A minute and fifteen seconds." There was a pressure on his wrist. Sherlock was still monitoring his pulse, then. The detective's frame appeared far more tense than it should've been. "Do you think you can stand up?"

John sighed, rubbing his head with one hand. It did nothing to ease the ache. "Yeah, yeah. Just… Give me a bloody minute."

Slowly, slowly, needing far more help than he would've liked, John made it to a sitting position, then all the way up. The world swayed threateningly for a few moments until his feet began to feel at least somewhat steady. Sherlock's supporting arm was firm, unnaturally stiff.

Despite the far from ideal circumstances John couldn't resist smiling a bit. "You can let go now, you know? I can stand on my own."

"Standing isn't the problem." Sherlock's voice was an octave lower than usual. Sounded almost like a growl. The taller man was avoiding his eyes. "Walking will be."  
John fought the urge to groan. "Where, exactly, are you going to take me?" Were they going right back to the case? Bloody hell, he needed…!

Sherlock didn't quite roll his eyes but seemed to come close. "To get you something to eat, obviously. It'd be irritating to have you collapsing all over crime scenes."

John nodded slowly, fearing that anything more dramatic might be too much for his head. The corners of his lips twitched. "I see."

They made their way down the stairs and John breathed a sigh of relief that Mrs. Hudson didn't step out to see him like that. After what felt like a small eternity they were outside. The fresh air did miracles to John's head and he closed his eyes.

"Don't do that", Sherlock ordered immediately.

Obediently John opened his eyes once more. He felt like he should've said something but couldn't quite get the words out. Mercifully it didn't take too long before a cab appeared. Sherlock's hands were stunningly gentle while guiding him inside. Neither spoke a word as the journey began.

John was nowhere near Sherlock's level of deduction. But he'd known the detective long enough to be able to pinpoint that something was off. He took a deep breath, pleased to discover that the dizziness had eased just a little bit.

John's lips finally parted but Sherlock was faster. "You need to tell me, John." There was a unreadable look on the taller man's face. Could it possibly be worry lingering in those eyes? The genius refused to look towards him, instead stared out the cab's window. "When we're on a case it's all I focus on. I can't be distracted by having to keep an eye on you. So you need to tell me when you need to slow down. Regardless of how I might take it. Are we clear?"

For a few moments John could only stare, stunned to a point where his thoughts halted completely. Then, despite the fact that he still felt like someone had ran him over by a truck, a thin trace of a smile appeared. "Yes, we're clear." He then swallowed, noticing how his friend's fingers were drumming restlessly. "I didn't mean to worry you. I'm sorry."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. A bit like those of a child having a temper tantrum. "I wasn't worried."

Their driver – a rather kind looking middle-aged man with a bald head and small, blue eyes – snorted. Even gave them a look through a rearview mirror. "Yes, you were."

Sherlock's eyes flashed in a way John recognized all too well and the detective's jawline tightened. One could almost hear the wheels turning. Deciding to stop the oncoming disaster before it was too late John shook his head. To his surprise Sherlock gave him a look of intense irritation but actually relented.

During the next eight minutes Sherlock's fingers didn't stop drumming for even a second. The look in the man's eyes was something almost heartbreaking. Clearly the self diagnosed sociopath was experiencing something that he definitely didn't like or wasn't prepared for.

At that moment John made his decision. So what if people would talk? There was only one cab driver to see, anyway.

Sherlock stiffened completely when he took the detective's hand, guiding it subtly to his own wrist. At first the genius clearly didn't understand what in the world was going on. Then, as the steady beat that _wasn't_ the genius' anxious drumming registered, understanding dawned on Sherlock's face. The fingers tightened the slightest bit, most likely without their owner even noticing.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

John knew that his pulse was strong and steady. That after a meal he'd be a tad bit closer to being alright. Little by little it looked like Sherlock believed it, too.

A comfortable silence lingered in the vehicle while the two friends sat side by side, enjoying the moment of calm before their newest case would continue.

* * *

_Scene completed._

* * *

A/N: Oh, those two. (beams) You know, every time I type one of these bits I feelt warm and fuzzy inside in the end. (chuckles)

Soooo… Any good, at all? Or a bit of not good? PLEASE, leave a note! (gives puppy eyes) (Awww, c'mon, you know you've got a soft spot for those!)

BY THE WAY… Wanna add the emotional load of this? Compare Sherlock feeling John's pulse to John trying to find the same comfort when searching for Sherlock's in 'TRF'. (gulps)

WHAT'S TO COME: Next I'll be conveying the aftermath of John spontaneous Asperger's comment in 'The Hounds of Baskerville'. And then there'll be Lestrade's POV to our favorite heroes exciting the conclusion of their very first case, along with a bit of the magical duo's own input of course. (smiles) How does that sound?

REQUESTS ARE STILL INTENSELY WELCOME, BTW! It looks like I'll be posting these bits for all eternity, but oh well. I'm having a good time with these so, so what? (grins)

Until next time, I hope, whichever project that may be with!

Take care!


	7. His Asperger's? (The Hounds of Baskervil

A/N: For several reasons it took me quite a bit longer to finish this than I would've liked. (pouts) Would some cyber cupcakes be a worthy apology – along with a new scene, of course…?

First, though! GOSH! Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all your reviews, love and support! Seriously, I would've never expected that a 'story' of this kind could receive this much love. (beams) You guys are incredible!

Awkay, before I chicken out or something… Let's go! I REALLY hope that this turned out decent.

THIS SCENE was a request, and also something that struck me quite hard when I first watched the episode. I actually stared at the screen for a couple of moments wondering 'Was that really just said?'. I was sort of hoping that they'd return to the topic later, but since they didn't… (smirks)

* * *

His Asperger's? – 'The Hounds of Baskerville'

* * *

Sherlock's fingers were drumming the steering wheel restlessly while he drove on, barely aware of John's presence. As much as he would've wanted to focus on the case it seemed that his mind was infuriatingly uncooperative. His drumming intensified when a stubborn, unpleasant memory crawled through.

* * *

/ _His mommy's eyes – so much like Mycroft's that it was unbelievable – were full of tears when she stared at him. "Sherlock, those… those are crucial people to daddy's business. Do you understand? This dinner party was very, very important to me, too. And you destroyed it. You humiliated your own parents in front of all those people. What do you have to say to defend yourself?"_

_Sherlock, only five years old, frowned and shifted his weight to another leg. He didn't like it when mommy was upset. Somehow he seemed to upset her all the time these days. "But… It's true, mommy. And you've always said that lying is bad." He licked his lips, trying to figure out what it was the he'd said wrong. He'd just corrected a honest mistake when someone complimented his parents' marriage. "You and daddy don't sleep in the same room anymore. You never laugh at his jokes. You don't even look at each other." He searched her eyes, unable to find any traces of forgiveness or approval. "Why are you together if you don't love each other, mommy?"_

_Her eyes flashed. He saw the attack coming exactly a second before she slapped his cheek, hard. Instantly realizing what she'd done she sobbed hard, burying her face into both of her hands. __"I… __I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry! But you… You keep doing things like this, all the time. It makes me tired, sad, confused and angry. And sometimes… Sometimes it's just so hard to be your mommy. Sometimes I wish…" She never finished. For years and years Sherlock wondered if it would've been for the better or worse if she had._

_Sherlock swallowed loudly, blinking back the searing sensation creeping into his eyes. "I know that I'm grounded", he announced in a tone of voice he hoped wouldn't upset mommy further. "I'll go to my room, now." True to his words he walked away, his back straight and his face betraying none of the storm blowing inside._

_He was called out of his room later that evening. Mommy appeared happy again and when the bruise appeared to Sherlock's face no one asked a thing. He played along but never forgot._ /

* * *

"Do you think that it's a possible theory?" It took a mighty while before Sherlock realized that the words came from him. It took even longer before he figured out that they'd, in fact, been spoken out loud.

John glanced towards him with a frown. Obviously confused. "What?"

Sherlock growled with frustration, fixing his eyes to the road ahead. "Would you at least try to keep up? Asperger's, John! Do you think that it's a possibility?"

The reaction he achieved wasn't exactly the one he'd been expecting, nor was it a even remotely helpful one. John's eyes widened to a rather impressive size while color seemed to drain from the man's face. It took annoyingly long before a single word was spoken. "Sherlock, I… I didn't mean it, alright?" The man ran a hand through his shortcut hair, unleashing a sigh. "Bloody hell, I'm so sorry!" Those impossibly blue eyes were full of sincerity as they turned towards him. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. Even as a joke that was a lot of not good, and horribly insensitive."

Sherlock scoffed, focusing on the road once more. If possible his drumming became even more frantic. This wasn't getting him anywhere…! "I didn't ask whether you're sorry or not", he snarled. "I was asking if you think it's possible."

John appeared hesitant. Very clearly worried about causing even more damage. "Do you… want me to be honest?"

Sherlock didn't even try to control the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, yes. Obviously. That would be very much appreciated."

"Alright." John sighed, apparently finding something extremely fascinating outside the passenger's window. "Well, you do have a rather large number of the classical symptoms. I'm not exactly a specialist but I'd be rather confident to give you a diagnosis, if you'd ask for one. I'd like to have you evaluated properly, though."

Sherlock snorted, a new stream of memories flooding in. "Those doctors I was sent to as a child wanted to assess me, too. Like I was some sort of a science project. A broken item in need of being fixed."

John glanced briefly towards him. There was a flicker of curiosity in the doctor's eyes. "What did you do?"

Sherlock shrugged. A small smirk appeared. "I refused, of course."

* * *

/ _Sherlock was at the age of seven when he sat in his room, staring stubbornly at the opposite wall with raging eyes._

_When the room's door opened after a brief knock he wished, against all odds, that it'd be mommy. Instead he heard Mycroft's voice. "Dr. Martin left in quite a hurry. And mommy's crying. What did you do this time?"_

_Sherlock shrugged. His arms folded while a combative look appeared to his face. "I just told the truth, that's all."_

_The truth that the doctor kept checking his watch every five seconds because he was late for meeting his mistress. A mistress, because that cologne wasn't the usual one his wife bought him – this was new, and he was scratching his skin because it was giving him a rash. A mistress because he was fiddling with his wedding ring, already mentally preparing for ripping it off. Why was everyone so upset with Sherlock for just telling the truth?_

_Mycroft sighed. Appearing years older than he was. "You should go and apologize."_

_Sherlock glared at his brother heatedly, gritting his teeth so hard that it hurt. His tiny fists balled painfully tightly. "Apologize for what? I was only telling the truth, Mycroft!"_

_Something that looked painfully lot like disappointment lingered in his brother's eyes. In the end Myrcroft's jawline tightened while those eyes darkened. "Well, here's another truth for you. You'll never become a pirate, so you'll need to try and fit in to the real world, like the rest of us." A sandwich was practically tossed at him. "Now eat, and come downstairs to apologize. I don't know what's the matter with you but you really need to grow up. You have to stop making mommy cry." A picture of manners his brother didn't slam the door upon leaving._

_Sherlock didn't eat. Nor did he apologize. Instead he took a book of anatomy and began to study all the ways a human being could be killed, trying to ignore the hellish stinging sensation in his eyes._

_By the following morning, when mommy finally came to tell him that he was allowed to leave his room, Sherlock had deleted the entire solar system from his head. Into that place he'd storaged fifty-two ways to kill someone. _/

* * *

"There's nothing wrong with you, Sherlock." Those words stunned Sherlock out of his memories. John's eyes were perfectly serious. Seeing his questioning glance the smaller man shrugged. "Sure, you can be a royal pain. And I'm fairly sure that one of these days you'll drive me crazy. But… There's absolutely nothing wrong with you. With or without a proper diagnosis. Don't ever let anyone tell you differently."

Sherlock stared at his flatmate incredulously. This was a man he kept dragging around on dangerous cases. A man his adventures had almost gotten killed several times over. A man who couldn't maintain a proper relationship partly because of him. A man who'd learned to accept heads in a fridge and bullet holes on a wall. And John, of all people, was actually telling him that there was nothing wrong with him?

John blinked twice. "What?"

Sherlock shrugged, focusing on the road once more. "Nothing, John. Nothing at all." _Just that you're the first person to ever tell me that._

Sherlock was barely able to restrain a smile while they completed the journey.

He'd possibly, probably, feel just a little bit guilty for what he was already planning on doing in the name of science. But he could live with some guilt. Especially when he now had someone who just might forgive him.

* * *

_Scene completed._

* * *

A/N: (To anyone wondering… The last bit, of course, hints to the… experiment Sherlock conducted on John in the lab.)

(chuckles) You know, this is one of the few stories I've written that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy at the end of each chapter. Oh, those two… I cannot wait for series three!

PLEASE, do leave a note! Was this a decent ride? Or something that should be pulled off the internet? You know how to let me know. (winks)

**I'm still eagerly accepting requests, btw.**

Until next time, folks! With whichever project that may be.

Take care!


	8. The Beginning (A Study in Pink)

A/N: I'm so sorry that it took me time to get back to this but my head's been a bit busy. (winces)

THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for the love you've given this collection and for your requests! I seriously can't believe how popular this has become. (gasps, then BEAMS) You guys are amazing! (hugs)

Awkay, I've gotta get going before I fall asleep on my laptop. I REALLY hope that this turns out worth the wait!

THIS ONE was a request that I totally adored. So, what was going through Greg's mind when our dynamic duo left the scene after the cabbie's death? With a splash of John and Sherlock, of course. (smiles)

* * *

The Beginning – 'A Study in Pink'

* * *

DI Gregory Lestrade was painfully aware of how very alone Sherlock Holmes had been all his life. He didn't have even one tenth of the detective's deduction skills but he could tell just how much damage the years of isolation and abandonment had done. To be honest he'd always wondered if there'd be anyone who'd get close enough to the guarded genius whose only form of self-defence was attack.

Only a little while ago he still wondered if _anyone_ would be on time – how many times Sherlock could dangle on the edge before deciding that death wasn't too boring, after all.

Then Dr. John Watson appeared to a crime scene. John, with a painfully tight smile, haunted eyes, a limp and a military posture even though he was far away from a war zone. And with the very first, breathtakingly honest compliment Greg knew that the winds of change were blowing. The look he caught in Sherlock's eyes, for only a microsecond but still, was more than enough of proof.

Today Greg watched the duo walking away, very much aware of three things.

Sherlock was grinning.

John wasn't limping anymore.

John shot the cabbie.

Or no, make that _four _things.

Because fourthly, he didn't give a damn.

"Sir?" There was a frown on Sally Donovan's face. "Why are you letting the Freak go? He's the only one who may have a caught a glimpse of…"

It took all Greg had not to smile. His eyes were firmly locked on the strange pair that was almost out of his line of vision. "He's in a shock. He can't be used as a witness right now."

Sally snorted. "And you actually believe him?"

Greg swallowed down a groan of annoyance. He inhaled deeply. Usually when he was making a bad decision there was a instinctive weight sitting on his chest, warning him, screaming at him to change his mind. The breath he took now was effortless and painless. "Get back to work. Let me worry about Sherlock."

Sally didn't seem to like the idea at all but in the end did turn on her heels, beginning to walk sharply back towards the building. Another snort carried to his ears, along with muttered words. "Well, there's a full time job for you…"

Greg's eyes remained where Sherlock and John just disappeared. Only a step away from each other. Chatting away like they'd known each other all their lives. Giggling.

It used to sadden Greg how few people were willing to actually try to understand Sherlock. It still did. But tonight he also smiled. "It's not just my job anymore", he murmured, knowing full well that no one would hear him.

He was very much aware of the fact that he was possibly making a huge mistake. John most likely had a unauthorized gun in his possession. The doctor just killed a man, a very bad man but still. There was a chance that he'd just let loose two madmen. But somehow Greg couldn't bring himself to worry too much.

Out of the blue appeared a almost certainly good man who, after barely meeting the detective, was willing to defend Sherlock to the police in the middle of a drug bust and even killed to save the man's life. If such a man truly existed Greg wasn't about to tear him away. He was willing to take this chance if it meant that he'd never, ever have to see Sherlock given up and lifeless again.

And so Greg turned around and headed back towards the building. Completely at peace with his decision and the smile still on his face. He didn't look back because he felt no need to.

The stars were atypically bright that night.

* * *

The atmosphere around Sherlock and John was full of slowly fading adrenaline, excitement and relief while they made their way through the night. They froze for a couple of seconds when out of nowhere a cab appeared. Apparently they'd both had their fair share of cabbies for a moment. As soon as the vehicle had disappeared they burst into giggles.

"I really hope that the restaurant you have in mind is nearby", John noted while they continued walking. "Because there's no way I'm getting into one of those for a while."

"It is", Sherlock assured him, a flicker of amusement in his baritone.

They walked on in a companionable silence for a while before John spoke again, his voice a bit low and tired as adrenaline faded and fatigue began to set in. "So… Are you going to tell me how to recognize a good Chinese restaurant from a doorknob or am I going to have to dig it out of you?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't speak nonsense, John. You'd do no such thing."

John had hard time fighting the smirk that wanted to crawl out. He probably didn't succeed. "You're shockingly confident for someone who just saw me kill a man."

Sherlock didn't smile. Somehow the look on the detective's face was something beyond. "I trust you."

John blinked twice, momentarily stunned. Then cleared his throat, fixing his eyes on the sky spreading up above. And smiled. "Well… Good." With that it felt like everything necessary had been said. Their steps were in perfect sync as they walked on.

The stars were indeed atypically bright that night.

* * *

_Scene completed._

* * *

A/N: Soooo… There you go. (grins) The beginning of our dynamic duo.

I've really gotta go to bed now. (winces) PLEASE, leave a note to let me know your thoughts before you head off! Was that any good, at all?

**And if you have requests they're greatly appreciated!**

Until next time, my lovelies! With whichever project that may be.

Take care!

* * *

**Sarah**: I'm absolutely thrilled and flattered to hear that you think so. (beeeeams)

Don't worry about not having requests! (hugs) But just know that I'll accept them gladly IF you ever happen to come up with any.

Colossal thank yous for the review!

* * *

**GhostyGuest**: HOORAY! I'm so excited to hear that. (grins)

Hmm, sounds like a really interesting idea! I'd imagine that his Mind Palace was quite jumbled and he did a lot of thought work. And a bit of guilt was definitely there, too. (smirks)

I really hope that you'll keep enjoying the bits to come!

Huge thank yous for the review!


	9. The End (The Reichenbach Fall)

A/N: Awkay… We all saw it coming. This episode just had to be included. (gulps) BUT, before unleashing those tear-jerking memories I'm sure we all have…

THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for your UNBELIEVABLE reviews! I would've honestly never expected this collection to get this much love. So thank you! You guys ARE amazing! (beams and HUGS)

Awkay… Before I'll end up regretting this… Let's get going, shall we? (takes a deep breath)

TAKES PLACE almost right after Sherlock's fall, well before the therapist's appointment.

ONE MORE THING! Please don't be too hard on poor John. He's in tremendous pain and grieving, remember?

* * *

'The End' – The Reichenbach Fall

* * *

DI Gregory Lestrade had never actually been to a war. But he felt like he'd just arrived to see the end of one when he lay his eyes on the man fallen to the pavement next to a rapidly drying pool of blood. It actually took him three seconds to convince himself that the man sitting ten steps away, eyes glazed over and his stiff form unnaturally straight, was even breathing at all. To remember that this battle only claimed one casualty.

Didn't it?

Seeing a young woman in green scrubs with neatly tied brown hair and exhausted eyes of the same color he made his way to her. "How is he?" His voice was colored by sadness and guilt he didn't even try to conceal. All he wanted was this nightmare to end.

The doctor sighed heavily, glancing towards the figure still slumped to the ground. "He hit his head while falling down. He seems to feel dizzy and disoriented but I doubt he'd have a concussion. Physically he's doing alright."

Greg nodded tensely, his eyes stinging for a brief moment. He didn't need her to say what she thought of the grieving soldier's mental state. "Has he moved at all since…?" He couldn't bring himself to voice it. It would've felt too real. Too soon. _Wrong_.

All of this was fucking wrong.

The woman's shake of a head wasn't a surprise. "I wasn't even able to persuade him inside for a proper check-up." There was a great deal of sympathy in her eyes when they swept the hunched figure's way. "It's like he's still waiting."

Greg nodded, hoping that it was enough of a thank you because there was no way he would've been able to to produce actual words without the emotional turmoil taking over completely. He steeled himself for a mighty while before beginning to approach. Dreading what kind of a response he'd receive.

Dr. John Watson tensed up completely upon hearing his steps. He'd never seen the kind of a look in those eyes that took over as soon as they spotted him. The former soldier swallowed loudly, his blood stained hands trembling violently. "I'm… I can't give you a testimony. Not now."

Guilt twisted in Greg's abdomen like a ball of thorns. "I know." Grief seeped into his tone along with regret. He could only hope that John was able to hear them, that the doctor understood. "I didn't come here for that, John."

John's eyes hardened. The warmth they usually possessed vanished entirely. "I can't give you what you need." So suddenly that the man almost fell right back down the doctor was up but found his footing on his own, struggling stubbornly to remain in control over himself. And in a blink the smaller man was limping away.

Greg swallowed thickly, not managing to look over his shoulder when John passed him by. He was too much of a coward to face what he'd find. "He… He was my friend, too, John."

The limping steps halted violently. It took several frosty seconds before even colder words came. "No, he wasn't. Not with how easily you were swayed to doubt him. Not with how you still doubt." There was a prolonged, heavy pause. "He cared about you far more than you could ever imagine, Lestrade. You would've seen that if you'd bothered to see and observe." With that the doctor was walking away once more, a lightyear of distance already between. "Don't worry. I'll come and give my testimony tomorrow. Just… Just do me a favor. Make sure that Donovan or Anderson won't be the one taking it."

By the time Greg finally managed to turn around, a hellish searing sensation having taken over his eyes, John was already gone. Instead he found Sally Donovan who stood a small distance away, staring at the pool of blood with slightly wide eyes. Sherlock's blood. Was she shivering? "Is… this our fault?" Her voice was barely audible. Still it cut deeper than a knife.

Greg gritted his teeth so hard that it _hurt_. Fighting a losing battle against the thunderstorm bellowing inside. "Take care of this mess", he spat. "Interrogate anyone who may have seen something. Try to find out what the hell happened here." With those words he was walking away as well. Desperate to leave behind the scene that'd haunt him until the end of his days. "I need some air."

Sally didn't question him. Greg was glad. There was no telling what he would've said.

It wasn't until Greg was in his car, all alone, he finally dared to unleash what he'd felt coming since the news first found him. He buried his face into his hands, his whole body and soul trembling. In less than seconds he broke down into quiet, wrenching sobs of remorse and sadness.

* * *

John's legs weighed a ton each while he made his way through the streets of London, feeling like he'd been in some kind of a sick, never ending nightmare. People gave him strange looks, some whispered to each other, but he paid no attention to them. For him the entire world had come to an end, at least for a while.

At some point he could've sworn that he spotted a fancy black car tailing him. He ignored it pointedly. There was no way he'd be accepting anything from Mycroft Holmes today, least of all acts of charity and regret. Rage flickered in his veins.

Sherlock, Greg, Mycroft… Why _the hell_ were they all expecting him to understand? How much did they imagine him to be able to take? All he wanted was to wake up from this or to be left alone.

He was used to being alone, used to facing everything all by himself.

/ "_Alone protects me._" /

John quickened his steps, even with the risk that it nearly swept him off his feet with how badly he was trembling.

Memories flashed through his head in a unstoppable stream. Like his life had been flashing by his eyes. He'd imagined that something like that only happens to dying people.

Perhaps, in a way, he in fact was dying.

/ _"You machine!"_ /

Throwing up right after the next street corner, unable to spew out the poison coursing through his system, John almost wished he was dying.

John had absolutely no idea how he made it home. It was already dark outside by the time he dragged himself up the stairs to discover that 221B's door was slightly ajar. He blinked once with surprise before entering without a hint of hesitation. He froze at what he found.

Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper were there, clearly having been waiting for him. Sitting on the couch, their eyes red and puffy from crying, still wiping away some tears. Sadness hung thickly in the air.

It took a few seconds, during which John considered escaping only to find that his feet wouldn't work for him anymore. But then Mrs. Hudson noticed him. In an instant she was up and on her way to him, a fresh set of tears rimming her eyes. Somehow she appeared years older than she did when he last saw her only hours ago. "Oh, dear, look at you…! You're shivering." Her arms were already spread. "Come here."

John most definitely would've if he could've. But as it was he couldn't even twitch, wasn't able to make a sound. Fortunately Mrs. Hudson seemed to understand.

Before he even realized properly what was happening she'd folded him into a tight, nearly desperate embrace, pulled him close to her frame that was already shuddering with sobs. After several moments of stun John returned her hold, trying to provide the grieving woman at least a tiny bit of comfort. Attempting to fix what was beyond repair.

That was how they remained for the longest time, Mrs. Hudson crying her heart out and John holding her. Unsure if he wanted the cold numbness that'd taken over all of him to end or if he wanted it to cocoon him forever.

/ "_I don't have friends. I've just got one._" /

/ "_Goodbye, John._" /

John wasn't aware of the silent tears trickling down his cheeks in the semi-dark.

* * *

_Scene Completed._

* * *

A/N: Okay… (gulps) Now that… hurt. A bit. Even the thought of THAT episode hurts, really. (sighs, and wipes eyes) Those poor things…!

Thoughts? Feelings? PLEASE, do let me know! After a piece like this it'd mean A LOT.

And as always, if you have requests do let me know!

THE NEXT ONE WILL BE HAPPIER, I PROMISE.

It's getting late and I've got a million things left to do so I've gotta go. Until next time, folks, whichever project that may be with!

Take care!

* * *

**Sarah**: I'm really glad to hear that! (grins)

So I'm not the only one who wondered! (chuckles) I guess we'll never know. How dull!

Huge thank yous for the review!

* * *

**Oriongirl**: My GOSH, how happy and flattered you just made me! (beams, and blushes a bit) It absolutely baffles me that someone would enjoy something I've typed THAT much.

I really hope that you won't be disappointed with what's to come, either.

Monumental thank yous for the absolutely amazing review!

* * *

**Guest**: HOORAY! (grins from ear to ear and jumps with joy) I'm happy to hear that.

Massive thank yous for the review!

* * *

**RS11**: Awww, you've making me super thrilled. (beams)

Thank you so much for the review!


End file.
